


The Dance

by Fatouma



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-07
Updated: 2015-03-07
Packaged: 2018-03-16 19:15:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3499793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fatouma/pseuds/Fatouma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cullen enjoys the ball at Halamshiral... or does he? Well... no. Not really.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Dance

_Disclaimer: Dragon Age:Inquisition is owned by BioWare. No copyright infringement intended.  
English version of my German story "Der Tanz"._

**The Dance**

 

Oh, how much he detested being here. The pretended redolences that filled the ballroom like invisible sulphur vapour billowing through a washhouse in the realm of demons made sickness crawl up inside him. And not even these powdery clouds of perfume were able to cover the reek of treason, scheme and danger that filled the Palais of Halamshiral up to the very last corner. From the bottom of his soul he despised everything "the Game" stood for, the hypocrisy and the intrigues, the insidiousness and the masks which everyone here wore, openly or not. Cullen suppressed an indignant growl.

Even more than that, the obtrusive nobles nauseated him, who - men and women alike - obviously mistook him for a kind of sex object whose only reason of existence it was to be not only embarrassed with their more or less explicit advances, but even to be openly pawed and groped. He squared his shoulders and let his features petrify into a marmoreal expression of indifference - that was _his_ mask for the evening. He answered inquiries automatically, without even looking, with monosyllabic, empty clichés, barely elaborate enough to not appear completely rude. Even this night would end, just like there was an end to everything, even to epidemics, to pestilences and natural disasters.

The Inquisition's attendance to this ball was a pure waste of time. An elite squad of his soldiers would have been perfectly sufficient to prevent an assassination attempt on Empress Célène's life, but no. The Lady Inquisitor had decided otherwise. Cullen's heart skipped a beat when he thought of her. She was just breathtakingly beautiful tonight in her long ball robe of iridescent sea-green silk. The gown captivated the eye with the simplicity of its design, highlighting her female forms without revealing too much. Amidst all the bell-bottomed crinoline dresses and the silly knickerbockers which all the noble guests were wearing, she appeared as exotic as a peacock among a flock of grey pigeons.

He worried about her. It had been a while since he last had seen her. That had been on the occasion of her dance with Countess Florianne - an image that had fanned the smouldering fire of annoyance and anxiety that glowed within him even more. This was all part of "the Game" and Cullen was not sure how well - or how poorly - his Lady played it. Danger threatened there, he could smell it, nearly taste it on his tongue. He should be at her side and not stand around here idly, order or no. He should protect her. Where _was_ she?

The small orchestra intoned a new suite. The syncopated notes of the Bourrée floated upwards from the dance floor beneath the gallery, pervaded the susurration and laughter of the guests on the upper matroneum. The dancing couples on the gleaming floor took their positions and began to finically pace around each other to the music's rhythm. Cullen loved music, but he didn't care much for the courtly suites. In his opinion they consisted of little more than priggish plashing, vain and meaningless, just like everything else at court. Only the slow, sensual Sarabande, often composed in minor key and involving a certain melancholy, always managed to touch his heart - even more so when he imagined holding his love in his arms while listening to its tune.

The Bourrée was over, and so was the Allemande. The orchestra started playing the Courante, and there was still no sight of her. Cullen squared his jaw until his teeth ached. Maker's breath, where could she be? Had something happened to her? He glanced over to Leliana who was exchanging hollow suavities with some noble fop whose gold-fringed, midnight-blue velvet doublet looked as though it had been a curtain in its previous life. The Inquistion's spy master nodded to him reassuringly with an ever so slight tilt of her head. She didn't appear worried - but on the other hand, one could never be too sure with her.

"Commander", a voice purred close to his ear.

Oh no. Not again, Cullen thought and ignored the noble pest. He didn't even look, preferred to search the ballroom for the Lady Inquisitor with his eyes.

The pest was not to be put off so easily. "I... suppose you probably didn't reserve a dance for me?"

"No", he replied mechanically while his gaze tried to pierce the thick glass of a window that looked out on one of the balconies. "Sorry."

"Oh", uttered the pest - and the genuine disappointment that resonated in this tiny word made him finally look around. Appalled, he became aware that it was not just somebody who had asked this question to him. How was it possible that he hadn't recognized her voice? That he hadn't felt her presence? In this ambience full of artificiality and malice he just wasn't himself, otherwise this would never have happened to him. He had been looking for her for so long, and here she stood beside him, so lovely that he could have dropped dead on the spot, and - thank the Maker - safe and sound, and she glanced at him as though she couldn't decide between being offended or amused. He longed to close his arms around her, hold her tight and never let her go again. But that, of course, was unthinkable.

"Maker's Breath", he finally rasped hoarsely since obviously no merciful hole would open up in the ground for him to disappear in. "I am sorry. I have been asked this question so often tonight that I deny it automatically. I wanted... I mean, I didn't want to..." He broke off. At least he could spare her his stammering. He felt his blood rushing to his face and he wondered how long it might take until his skin resembled the colour of a boiled lobster.

The corners of her mouth lifted into this incomparable, tiny little smile that she had reserved for him alone, and relief dissolved the knot of contriteness in his chest.

"I understand", she said, and her smile turned into a wide grin. "You have attracted quite a following... it looks frighteningly similar to a hostile siege."

"Yes, and they won't leave me alone", he hissed and unnervedly rolled his eyes skywards.

"Well... it's a shame we can't dance together. Such an opportunity might not show up again so soon." She sighed. "Anyhow... I need to talk to Duke Gaspard. I have found out some things he'd better explain to me. See you later." She threw him a glance that was suitable to let his blood boil over, then brushed her fingers against his hand in a touchingly secret gesture, and measuredly paced away.

The first soulful, dreamy notes of the Sarabande wafted through the air, and Cullen's eyes followed her until the last green shimmer of her ball gown had vanished in the crowd. As soon as they'd be back in their quarters, he would adequately apologize for his unthoughtfulness. When they had survived this evening. When they finally were alone. His heart pounded against his chest as he imagined how he would peel her out of the smooth, soft green silk of her dress, slowly, sensually, and how he would cover every inch he exposed of her warm skin with kisses. She would get her dance. He would see to it.

 


End file.
